


buy one, get one (today only)

by naevia_nadia



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based on that Iconic Tumblr Post, Chili's Fic, Crozier Has Feelings, Crozier's Terrible Taste in Shirts, Fitzjames Suffers, Fluff, Going to Chili's is something that can be so personal, Hi Welcome To Chili's, Humor, M/M, Naval Officers, See Author's Notes for more Comments, Shore Leave, Terror and Erebus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24578602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naevia_nadia/pseuds/naevia_nadia
Summary: Captain Francis Crozier realizes that he finally has the opportunity to take Commander James Fitzjames to Chili's.  James Fitzjames protests, but Francis Crozier is not to be kept from that oh so sweet "buy one, get one free" appetizer deal.  Based on that Iconic Tumblr post, where Crozier takes Fitzjames to Chili's.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	buy one, get one (today only)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of a favorite tradition: Shitposting on Twitter.
> 
> Please enjoy! :D

Francis Crozier stares at the whiteboard on the wall by their refrigerator. He hums thoughtfully.

"What?" asks James Fitzjames, sitting at the kitchen table. He looks up from where he was messing around on his phone. A cup of coffee, heat curling up into the air, sits by his elbow. 

"Been a while since I've taken you out," Francis says.

James would have smiled to himself, but Francis' tone makes him wary instead. "Not really. We went out last week."

"To the opera," Francis says. "Crammed all in our dress uniforms. Sharing a box with John Franklin."

And it was a splendid opera. And Francis does always look so lovely and strong in naval dress uniform. James spent nearly half the opera just watching Francis sit there. Somehow, his discontent expression only made him look more attractive. 

"It's good for me to get to know Captain Franklin better," James says. "Considering I'm to be his First on _Erebus_ once we leave port. Not even a week from now."

Francis hums again. "Yes. Opera last week. Makes it five for your side."

James' sleep-addled mind, not yet recovered from his and Francis' extracurriculars the night before, slowly starts to piece it together. 

Whiteboard.

Opera.

Francis.

Five.

James pushes himself off the kitchen table. "No," he says incredulously. 

Francis laughs to himself.

James pushes him aside to look. There, plain as day, is The Whiteboard (as he and Francis define it). A black Expo marker is clipped to the side.

A black line is drawn down the whiteboard middle. On the left side is written " _Opera, Etc._ " in James' cursive. Five tally marks are drawn. 

On the right side, in Francis' swishy lettering, is " _Chili's_ ". With only four tally marks.

" _Francis_ ," James whines, pitifully. 

"That's the agreement, James," says Francis triumphantly. He saunters over to the coffee pot, pleased with himself. "For every gala and party and opera, I get to take you to Chili's."

"Those galas and parties and operas have _meaning_ though," says James. "For you too; it's important to engage with command."

"I'm already Captain, sweetheart," says Francis. "I'm not seeking promotion like someone _else_ I know."

James blows a strand of hair off his face. 

Back when he and Francis began this engagement, James realized a major flaw in his new lover: an absolute obsession with that American restaurant "Chili's". 

"Had it when I was hanging with some American sailors," Francis told him, at their first Chili's Event. "Never had anything better. Nothing compares."

James had sat there, surrounded by what felt like thousands of small children (all screaming) and the elderly, and willed himself to drink his $5 margarita, knowing that there was likely only one drop of tequila in the entire glass. 

James had hoped to introduce Francis to much superior restaurants. Places that didn't have the prices listed on the menu. Places that were for Couples Only. Places where James could dress up and not feel like the pinnacle of vanity in making such an effort. It wasn't like Francis needed to keep a budget; he was a salaried Captain in the Royal Navy, for God's sake. 

But Francis was a stubborn man. It was a quality that James both adored and despised; getting Francis to forgo Chili's was like beaching a ship and expecting to get anywhere with a solid push at the stern. 

"Besides," Francis says. He holds a mug with the seal of _Terror_ , his own ship, printed on the side. "There is meaning when it comes to Chili's."

"What?" James growls.

"It's BOGO appetizers tonight."

  
\--

  
James spends the rest of the day alternating between answering text messages from Captain Franklin, perusing the internet, attempting to convince Francis of any other restaurant besides That Horrid Chili's and dreading the inevitable. 

"Have you given any thought to what you're wearing tonight, James?" Francis asks cheerfully.

"Full military dress," says James, dryly. "Polish my medals, will you?"

Francis laughs him off. 

Despicable man.

"Are you done pouting, Commander?"

"I am _not_ pouting," James says, curled into his favorite armchair. 

Francis raises an eyebrow at him.

  
\--

  
Eventually, James succumbs to the inevitable. It's nearing sixteen hundred. And Francis likes to get to Chili's early; he made their reservations for seventeen. 

James drags his feet into his and Francis' shared bedroom. Francis is already in there. He's riffling through their extremely small collection of shore leave clothing.

"Oh, perfect, you're here," says Francis. "I need your opinion."

Then, Francis holds up a shirt that's so ungodly hideous that James has to sit down on their bed from the shock.

"Francis, what in the hell is that?"

Francis looks at it. Then at James, incredulously. "It's a shirt?"

This Shirt...is an unholy marriage of Hawaii and Paisley. The white plastic buttons somehow clash with the green and purple print. James can smell the polyester from here.

James briefly experiences four stages of grief, but not the fifth.

"Francis, I will not be seen with that in public. It's horrifying."

"I think it's rather fetching," says Francis.

Is he deliberately obtuse?

James feels himself yet again at the stern of a beached ship and attempting to push that fat arse up a mountain. 

No use fighting fate.

"Fine," James says. He goes past Francis to rummage through his side of their tiny closet. He grabs something at random (a sweater, for James is usually cold in restaurants) and some matching pants and his normal boots. "Let's get this over with."

Francis begins to dress. James would normally ogle, but he's feeling cranky about this entire situation. "Have you had a chance to look at the menu? They have a lot of good deals tonight. I'm thinking of getting Fried Pickles for an appetizer, but it's buy one, get one free, so you need to pick something too."

James fusses with his hair in the mirror. "No, Francis, I haven't had a chance to peruse the most holy of all menus."

"That's all right," Francis says. "You can pull up the menu on the way. I'll drive." He presses a kiss to James' cheek, rubbing a hand down his side as he does so, before ducking into the bathroom to finish getting ready. 

James briefly considers wearing a wig, just in case someone recognizes him or Francis. But no; that'll be even more inconspicuous. James could never be a blond. 

  
\--

  
On the way to Chili's, James and Francis pass the port from a cliff above. Both _Terror_ and _Erebus_ are docked; their sleek forms gleam in the sunlight. 

"Francis, can we pull over and look?" James says, pressed against the window. 

"We've got reservations for seventeen. No time."

James watches sadly as the ships fades from sight as their car turns away. 

  
\--

  
Chili's is somehow popping tonight.

"Thankfully we have reservations," says Francis jovially. 

James glares at him and throws open his door. 

There's already a bit of chill in the air. 

"A bit of a chill at Chili's, ey?" 

James doesn't dignify that with a response.

  
\--

  
"Table for two," Francis says. "Under 'Crozier'."

The nice hostess, obviously imprisoned here as James is too, collects their menus and leads them across the room with a prisoner's smile. 

They're seated at their usual table: far from the bar, any loud television sets blasting football or American football and large tables that are a magnet for families with screaming children. Their waitress appears soon after. 

James remembers his manners; he listens intently and with a smile on his face as their waitress lists off all the deals that Francis already relayed to him in the car. 

Francis orders water. James orders water and a margarita.

"Good choice!" says their waitress. "Margaritas are half-off today."

"Lucky me," James says, with a smile that he hopes isn't a grimace. 

Francis' shirt is somehow more horrifying in the low, romantic light of Chili's.

"So tell me, James," Francis says. "How do you feel, so close to leaving port? Nervous?"

"The usual nerves I feel," James responds. "Six months at sea is a change of pace after this time on dry land. I honestly worry I might have lost my sea legs."

Francis waves that away. "Nonsense. You're more a sea dog than me."

"What's on the horizon for _Terror_ , then?"

"Back to the usual," Francis says. "Leaving in about a month. I'm excited to get back to sea myself. I've missed the sight of the stars. And the dolphins that jump the wake."

James thinks fondly of similar memories. Storms over the open water. Standing alone at the ship railing, listening to the waves. The hum of the engines. 

"How do you feel, being a First Officer this time around?" Francis asks.

If James were to respond truthfully, he would say that he's scared out of his wits. But Chili's is not a place of honor or of truth. "It's the next step, Francis. Captain Franklin is a competent man. A good superior officer. I hope to learn much from him."

Francis hums. 

Their waitress returns with their drinks. James sips his margarita. There is absolutely no alcohol content. 

Francis orders his Fried Pickles. James decides on the Crispy Cheddar Bites. Because why not go all out on the fried foods? The mess hall on the ship won't be able to compare, not even to the low standards of Chili's fare. 

It's quiet for a bit. The only sound comes from fussing children and some 80's rock over the restaurant loudspeakers. 

Francis' head is propped up on his hand. He looks at James with a strange look on his face. Almost pinched. 

"What?" James asks.

Francis blinks. "Nothing."

James clears his throat. "So. What're you thinking for your entree?"

"Classic sirloin," Francis says, recovered now from whatever the hell that was. "10 ounce. Mashed potatoes and broccoli."

"A wise choice," James says. As if that isn't the exact same thing Francis gets every time.

"And you, sweetheart?"

"My usual. Fajitas. Hearing those plates come out sizzling brings me some comfort in this dark place."

Francis collapses in a fit of giggles. It makes his face crinkle in a manner James would call "cute" if he didn't want Francis to mock him incessantly. The tip of his tongue pokes out from between his teeth. 

James looks down with a small smile. He chuckles himself.

Conversation passes then easily. They discuss a multitude of things: their ships; the latest gossip; what opera James will drag Francis to next, at the next available shore leave when both _Terror_ and _Erebus_ are in the same port. Francis talks about his favorite crew members; a man by the name of Jopson draws such praise that James thinks Francis may knight the man soon. 

When their waitress returns, she has to wait for James to finish a lengthy tale of the time he locked himself out of his quarters on _HMS_ _Clio_ , to Francis' roaring laughter.

"I was so close to sleeping on deck," says James.

"Why didn't you just ask the quartermaster for a spare key?" asks Francis, wheezing.

"Well, I'll have you know, Francis, that I have my pride."

Francis wheezes harder.

James sips at his margarita.

Both his and Francis' food come out at the same time. James' fajitas, sizzling on their plates, draw eyes from the rest of the Chili's patrons.

Francis' eyes soften when he looks at the steak in front of him. James can't help but find the similarities in that look and how Francis looks at him in bed.

James will not be jealous of meat. He focuses on constructing his fajitas with the utmost precision. 

At the first bite of his steak, Francis' face relaxes into a moan.

James is now jealous of meat.

"Just as delicious as the time I had it in the States," says Francis. 

  
\--

  
Both James and Francis are too stuffed for dessert that night, but James doesn't deny a margarita for the road ("Margaritas are half-off tonight, Francis!"). He carries his Styrofoam Chili's cup with his hand carefully placed to obscure the logo.

It's now night. The stars twinkle above, though few compared to what James has seen over the open-water. 

Francis drives back, quiet now. James looks out the window. 

When they pass their ships in port again, all of the ship lights are on. They are beacons, floating in that dark water. Their lights reflect on the gentle waves, making the water shimmer. James gazes at them with a smile. 

Francis flips the car's turn signal and pulls off the road into the surrounding field.

"Francis, what the hell are you doing?"

Francis only looks at him. There's that look again, from before. 

James quiets.

They drive over the bumpy field until they get as to port close as possible. They're on a cliff overlooking the port. The drop-off is steep and immediate; there's land and then there's a free-fall until one hits the shoreline. Waves lap at the loose stones. 

Francis puts the car in park. "Come on. Hop on the hood with me."

He gets out before James can respond. James has no choice but to follow him out, bringing his margarita with him. 

The sea breeze is stronger here. It smells of salt. James' hair flutters in the breeze. The tall grass sways against his boots. 

The trunk slams closed. Francis steps around the car holding a navy blanket. He wraps it around himself, covering up that horrid shirt, before climbing atop the car hood. He pats the hood, looking at James with that same damn expression as before.

"Francis, what's going on?"

"Come look at the ships with me."

James, wary, climbs atop the car hood.

It's warm under his arse. He holds his Chili's margarita in both hands. The wind nearly bites through his sweater, but James knows Francis must be colder, in that short-sleeve polyester nightmare. So he lets Francis stay bundled up.

Francis' blond hair, more grey now than when James met him years ago, waves in the sea-breeze. "I bet there aren't two ships more lovely in our entire Navy." 

James hums. They do cast an impressive image in port. Especially as they are docked beside much smaller fishing vessels. 

"Is it wrong of me, to wish _Erebus_ would stay docked?"

"Francis?"

Francis shakes his head. Coming out from under his blanket, he lays a hand upon James' thigh. " _Terror_ will be rather lonely next week. Docked alone."

"She's off next month."

He squeezes James' thigh. "In different direction."

James thinks he knows what this is all about. Now.

"Francis," he says, gently.

Francis scoffs. He pulls his hand away. "Look at me. Ridiculous." He shakes his head. 

"Remember what I said about emotions?"

Francis rolls his eyes, but recites: "I should express them, even if they're stupid."

Perhaps James hadn't said that exactly, but he's not to correct Francis. Especially when Francis has managed to crack open that hard, sardonic exterior that leads to the soft, mushy Francis that James does so adore. 

"What's this all about, Francis?"

Francis' face, so soft before, hardens into a scowl. It reminds James of when he first met Francis: he had thought him a bore and a stick in the mud. Among stronger language. 

For Francis is, if you look at him in shallow waters. Come out into the deep, into the ocean proper, and James has learned that there is so much more to Francis than an uptight man scowling in his naval dress. 

"I've never had a problem with a ship leaving before, James," Francis spits. "I know our life. Months on shore, months on sea. I say my goodbyes to friends easy enough. But the thought that you won't be there in not even a week is crushing me." He gestures to his chest. "I feel this pressure, here, at the realization that every day is ticking down to when I'll send you off as Commander James Fitzjames aboard _HMS Erebus_." His Irish accent grows thicker. "I'll come home to an empty house and then I'll be back on sea to an empty cabin in but a month and what then? What then, James? I wait until our ships happen to cross path, just to hold you again? Kiss you again? How'm I to sleep without you there, next to me?"

Francis heaves at the conclusion of his speech.

James' mouth gapes open. "Francis."

Francis scoffs and pushes himself off the car hood. He tucks the blanket further around himself, before he walks over to stand by the cliff's edge. Francis looks over at the ships in port. 

That was a lot more than James was expecting. His brain, fogged by the second Chili's margarita that somehow hit harder than the first, is slow to catch up.

James slides off the car hood, leaving the margarita behind. He stands behind Francis, who won't turn away from the horizon. James wraps his arms around Francis' blanketed form. He presses his body close, knees behind knees, and sighs.

" _Don't_ ," Francis growls. His voice is choked in a familiar way. 

James rests his face atop Francis' shoulder. He too casts his gaze over the horizon. Over the ships, at the dark sea beyond. At the stars that are reflected in the water. At the moon that bends in its reflection.

Part of James, the part that wasn't panicking over his responsibilities as First Officer to Captain Franklin, realized that he'd be leaving Francis behind. For the next six months; perhaps beyond, depending on what Francis is required to do with _Terror_. Sure, it's often that their ships will cross paths. That's how James and Francis got to know each other; their assigned ships kept meeting up, and officers' dinners and parties were a required result. Enough weekends off in various ports and shores led to their current engagement as it stands now.

But these months together in England have been the longest yet. 

James thinks of a well-meaning speech. Delivered as he does his stories at officers' dinners and galas and parties. He thinks of Francis standing there next to him, in full dress, at all of these events. Captain Crozier, of _HMS Terror_. Standing on his bridge, authority personified. 

He thinks of Francis at the opera, checking his watch as casually as possible. He thinks of Francis sitting across him at that damned Chili's, gleefully tucking into his steak as he does every single time. He thinks of Francis, in bed with him. At the kitchen table. At the supermarket. Dozing in his armchair. Standing next to him. 

How can James speak to any of this? About what spending time with Francis means to him? Every little moment, even the feigned irritation at Chili's, the spats and the make-ups and the debates and the joking and and how James feels when Francis kisses him, chaste and filthy, and with such heat to melt the packs of ice up north? 

There are no words for that.

Instead, James lifts his head to press a kiss to Francis' temple. He looks out over the water. Humming a sea shanty, James sways Francis and himself back and forth. 

The two ships, _Terror_ and _Erebus_ , sway in port below.

  
\--

  
The next morning, following a night of satisfying sleep from a Chili's carb and meat overload, James stumbles out of the bedroom to find Francis at the table. No matter how early he's forced to rise on the ship, James will never be a morning person. 

"Morning," James rasps. He feels his way to the coffee pot and pours a cup into his favorite mug: a bright pink monstrosity with Lisa Frank dolphins printed all over it.

"I can't believe you disrespect the integrity of my shirts," Francis says. "When you drink coffee out of that." He looks up with an eyebrow raised.

James knows then that Francis will be all right. That they'll be all right. 

"Francis, I say this with all the respect I owe you as a superior officer," James says. "But your shirts deserve to burn in hell."

Still...the day _Erebus_ is to depart, dressed in his uniform and nearly packed, Commander James Fitzjames takes that disastrous Chili's shirt from Francis' side of the closet and stuffs it into his bag. 

Then, standing in the kitchen, James uncaps the black Expo marker and erases all the tallies under Francis' " _Chili's_ " side. He instead writes:

" _We'll make it our tradition - Cdr. JFJ_ "

James takes his bag in one hand and his officer's cap in the other. He steps outside their shared home. When he closes the door, James places his cap atop his head and heads for the car.

_Erebus_ waits for him in port. And James knows that Francis will be there too, to send him off aboard that lovely ship. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic somehow got more heart as I wrote more. Started off a Shitpost, ended with Those Soft Feelings.
> 
> (Does England even have Chili's? LOL)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the read :D
> 
> If you want to yell with me about "The Terror", please follow me on Twitter @LadySt4rkiller.


End file.
